


pretty thing

by missbenzedrine



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Chaptered, College, Drug Addiction, Inspired by Euphoria (TV 2019), M/M, Manic Pixie Dream Girl!Eddie, POV First Person, POV Richie Tozier, Pining, Recreational Drug Use, Richie Tozier Loves Eddie Kaspbrak, Slow Burn, gotta love college shit, losers club intimacy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-16
Updated: 2019-12-29
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:40:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21813082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missbenzedrine/pseuds/missbenzedrine
Summary: After taking a semester off from college to regroup (and forcibly attend rehab at his mother's behest), Richie Tozier comes back to find that almost nothing has changed. Except that his circle of friends seems to have expanded without his permission. By one Eddie Kaspbrak.As he struggles to stay (relatively) sober in a world that makes that task incredibly fucking difficult, Richie manages to get hooked on something else-- someoneelse.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak & Richie Tozier, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 7
Kudos: 70





	1. the real world

**Author's Note:**

> alright, so, just right off the bat...
> 
> TW: heavy drug use, drug addiction 
> 
> the initial idea for this, and the dynamic between Eddie and Richie is inspired by Euphoria the TV show, which if you haven't watched, you definitely should (not that you have to to get this, just like in general it’s a great show) 
> 
> I am by no means trying to romanticize drug use/abuse, and I hope that it doesn't seem that way. as much as I can, I'm going to speak from personal experience, so that I can account for my words, but a lot of it is going to speculation, or based on other sources, because I haven't gone through this. 
> 
> I don't have all of this planned out, so it is very possible that I'll add more warnings as I go...I've been kinda wishy-washy on how I want to do it. I actually posted this a few days ago and unposted because I wasn't happy with it lol but now I think it's what I want 
> 
> please enjoy :) it's probs gonna be pretty angsty

_I think there's a flaw in my code  
These voices won't leave me alone  
Well my heart is gold and my hands are cold_

_Are you deranged like me?  
Are you strange like me?  
Lighting matches just to swallow up the flame like me?  
Do you call yourself a fucking hurricane like me?  
Pointing fingers 'cause you'll never take the blame like me?_

\--'Gasoline,’ Halsey

* * *

“You really think you should, Richie?”

The cherry on the tip of the joint dangling from Bev’s loose grasp, glowed, taunting me. Possibly with the knowledge that I wouldn’t say no. There was no way in hell.

My own fingers wrapped around the joint, taking it without hesitation.

Forty-two hours.

I took an agonizingly long drag, my eyes fluttering closed as the sweet, thick smoke filled my lungs. The familiar, tickling burn at the back of my throat. “God that’s good shit.” The words formed around the wisps of smoke that billowed from my lips and I heard Bev giggle next to me, taking the joint back.

It’d been forty-two hours since I left rehab.

Twelve since I arrived back on campus.

And just over one since I ran into Beverly Marsh in the hallway outside my dorm room.

Forty-two hours was all it took.

My psychiatrist back at Wilson Memorial would say that I never really intended to get better. That my behavior was a sign of self-destructive tendencies and an internalized desire to deny reality. She would probably be right.

What she wouldn’t say, was that sometimes the natural human response to constant anxiety and depressive turmoil, was to self-medicate. She wouldn’t say that, but it was probably the truest thing of all.

“So how do you like being back out in the real world, Rich?” Bev’s voice already rang high, disjointed and losing its grip on rationality. I didn’t mind. Somewhere on the edge of my consciousness, I registered my tshirt sticking to the dry tree bark behind me. Bev seated next to me, leaned her head against my shoulder and I closed my eyes, allowed the quiet sounds of the forest around us to filter in. The onset of the high was my favorite part.

“Rich?”

“Hm?”

“The real world…how do you like it?”

Taking my time, hanging on to the thought, I blinked my eyes open, lifting my head. “Oh,” I said. “It’s different. Less sterile.” I looked down, running my fingers through the dirt below my denim-clad thigh, the decomposing leaves. “More dirt.”

Her giggles reverberated across to my chest and I smiled, felt warmth spread there.

“I’m a bad influence, aren’t I?” she whispered, her lips closing around the joint. I imagined I could see her lungs expanding, the pockets filling with smoke-flavored oxygen, green and milky. A memory, perhaps from an old anatomy class: the mechanics of the human lung.

The question hung for a moment before I remembered to answer. “No.” I let the word carry its own weight. “I make my own decisions.”

“True enough.” She handed me the joint back and I took another long drag, eyes closed. Before I could open my mouth to let the smoke out, though, I felt her lips, soft, warm, unbearably familiar, on mine, coaxing the smoke out. Her gentle fingers found my jaw, as she kissed me. It wasn’t a loaded kiss, never had been. There wasn’t anything sexual or intentional behind it, other than a common desire to just be close, to feel the warmth of each other. She pulled away and leaned on my shoulder again. I could feel the decompression of her chest as she sighed against me.

“You didn’t miss much,” she said, taking my hand, our fingers lacing together automatically.

“I figured.”

She stayed quiet then. I focused on the sound of her quiet inhale…exhale. One. Two. One. Two.

Another coping exercise. I know so many of those now. _If you have the tools for success, you’re more likely to find it, Richie._ My psychiatrist was full of wise, useless platitudes.

When Bev spoke again, I had no idea how long it had been, minutes, maybe an hour. Time was a weird concept when you thought too hard about it, it seemed to disappear. “You haven’t met Eddie yet.”

It took me a moment to realize what she was saying, to piece the words together as a cohesive thought. “Who’s Eddie?” I finally responded.

“New kid. Transfer student. Took your spot rooming with Bill last semester.”

“Oh.”

“I think you’ll like him.”

“Yeah? Why?” I lifted my hand, fingers fiddling with a strand of her red hair that was resting on my shoulder.

“Don’t know. Just a feeling.” Her shoulders lifted and fell in a noncommittal shrug. “He’s… _special.”_

I pulled away, to look at her, my own eyebrows raised in question. _Special?_ I laughed, shaking my head. “Okay, Bevvie. Sure.”

Her sharp elbow dug into my side just before she pressed a kiss to my cheek. “You’ll see, asshole.”

* * *

The books on Stanley’s shelf were organized methodically by topic matter, then author, then title. Dragging the tip of my finger along the spines, I landed on a hard back: _Birds in the Wild._ There were a lot of bird books. I guess we all have our quirks.

“I’ll be just a minute, Rich. Make yourself comfortable.” It was so formal. Very _Stan._ Only Stan would act like a I was a distinguished guest at a dinner party while I stood in his dorm suite living room, waiting to go to a frat party. Only Stan.

“Sure, yeah. Take your time.”

His bedroom door closed behind him as he went to get changed and I walked over to the kitchenette. A half-empty bottle of merlot stood on the counter, next to several polished, long-stemmed glasses. After a moment’s hesitation, I took a glass, careful to pour myself just enough to taste. Two fingers. Or did that only apply to dark liquors? Something to take the edge off. The flavor was bright, lighter and fruitier than I was expecting. I took my time, savoring it. It went down easily, though, and Stan seemed to be taking his time, so I poured another.

Stan’s roommate Mike walked out into the kitchen then, eyeing me briefly, something, perhaps a question, flashing in his gaze, before he seemed to relax. “Hey, Tozier. Didn’t know you were back.”

“Ah, yes. Back from the dead. I’m like a cat, Hanlon. Still got eight more of me to go through before I’m finally gone for good.”

Mike gave an obligatory laugh as he walked over, taking the bottle of wine and pouring himself a glass. “Thought you weren’t supposed to be drinking anymore.”

“You say that as if you think some quack in New Hampshire can really tell me what to do with my life.”

His eye roll said more than his words. “Just saying. Don’t overdo it.”

“Overdo it? Please. When have I ever overdone it?”

“Literally all the fucking time,” Stan’s voice broke in as he walked out into the kitchen to join us, now clad in a relaxed button down and jeans, his hair still perfectly coifed as always. He looked at the wine and then back up at me. “You sure you wanna go, Richie? We don’t have to. We could stay in and watch movies. Order some pizza.”

“No, I need to get back out, see everyone. Maybe get laid.” I gave a wink in Stan’s direction and he huffed, before I turned back to Mike, whose sweatpants and hoodie look clearly indicated a night in. “You don’t wanna go, Mikey? I’ve heard it’s the beginning-of-the-semester bash to end all stupid college bashes.”

“Nah, I need to stay in. Already have a bunch of readings I’m behind on.”

“We haven’t even had classes yet.”

“I have my senior seminar this year. _Clash of the Spartans._ It’s actually pretty interesting stuff. But it’s gonna be a shitload of work.”

“Sounds like it. Fucking history majors.” I rolled my eyes and shoved his shoulder gently, conciliatory. “Honestly, you all have enough passion to push the rest of us out of this shithole. No one else actually gives a flying fuck about what they study.”

“I see the Trashmouth is still firing on all cylinders.” Mike’s smile was warm as he put a hand on my shoulder, squeezing gently. “Glad you’re back, Richie. Missed you, man.”

Stan’s sigh cut through what could have been a touching moment. So much for that. “Alright, let’s get out of here. Want to be there before they run out of cranberry juice like last time.”

“You should just bring some in a flask. You’ll be the only loser who brings their own fancy mixer to a frat party. That’s an honor in itself.”

Stan ignored me, turning to walk toward the door. “Bye Mike! I’ll be back no later than one.”

* * *

Under the right circumstances, college parties could be fun. Typically, the right circumstances included: at least two drinks to loosen up, a joint to take off the edge, then the main course – something a bit harder.

At least, that was how I usually partied. I was under close watch tonight though.

Under the wrong circumstances, college parties were an absolute drag.

“What can I getcha, Richie?” Ben stood at the counter in the kitchen, eyeing me with that big stupid grin of his. This was his frat, and he was on drink duty, as a recent pledge, at least, that was what Stan told me. It was strange, getting little bits and pieces about my friends’ lives, here and there, slowly piecing together the last six months.

“Manhattan, extra dry, please and thank you, Haystack.”

Ben’s eyes flashed with confusion for a moment before his mouth turned down into a deep frown. “We have shitty vodka and grocery brand soda.”

“I’ll take a vodka coke.”

“There we go.”

He poured the drink, light-handed with the vodka. They were all walking on eggshells with me, afraid to tell me no, but also to encourage me. I had worried that no one would know how to interact with me when I got back, and I was apparently right.

I took the red plastic cup from him with a nod, before walking away to find Stan. It was early still, the crowd was thin, but from across the room, I spotted a familiar face. Patrick locked eyes with me as I stared at him, and he smirked, cocking his head toward the hallway, a silent instruction.

After only a moment of hesitation, I followed him out into the hall, where the crowd was almost nonexistent. He was leaned up against the wall, dark shaggy hair hanging in front of his eyes. He didn’t really _fit,_ here, with all of the straight-laced frat boys just trying to get drunk enough to ask their crush to dance. But he wouldn’t be here if he couldn’t pick out the few who needed him.

“Thought you might’ve died, Tozier. Last time I saw you, you were passed out cold on the floor at Skizzy’s place.”

God, I don’t know who _Skizzy_ is. “Yeah. That was a rough night.”

He nodded slowly and reached down to his pocket, before pulling out a small black zip-up folder. He gave a quick glance around before opening it. “Got some good stuff tonight, Rich. You in?”

Inside, lined up neatly, were several small bags, full of various pale powders, one with a few pills. Enticing, sure, but I wasn’t there. Yet. “I don’t know, Hockstetter, I just got back. I feel like I should give this whole sober thing the ol’ college try, don’t you?”

Eyeing me slowly, as if assessing my sincerity, he gave a nod after a moment and zipped the case back up, but then spared a glance for my cup. “You’re drinking.”

“That’s different. It’s a frat party. One shitty shot of vodka won’t knock me off my game. Not like what you’re suggesting anyway.”

“Alright,” he said easily. “Too bad. You were one of my most consistent customers. If you change your mind, you have my number.”

“Right.”

He walked off, disappearing into the thickening crowd. It was nearly eleven now. A hand landed on my shoulder, making me jump, and I spun around to see Stan standing behind me. “Was that Patrick Hockstetter?”

“I believe so, yes.”

“What were you doing talking to him?” he asked, his voice incredulous.

“Just catching up.”

“Alright. Let’s go find Bill.”

* * *

Mephedrone. 4-methyl methcathinone. Bath salts. White magic.

The feeling is similar to MDMA, but lighter. It’s like if looking at a solar nebula were a sensation. I don’t believe in auras and mysticism and all that bullshit. But if I did, I might say that taking Mephedrone is when your aura expands, connecting you to other people, physically, intimately. The lines between identities blur and for a little while, the space around you creates a temporary, bodily community.

The first time I took bath salts I was seventeen.

It was really the first hard drug I experimented with. I had a sketchy dealer back in those days. A guy who was morally corrupt enough to sell the good stuff to kids who stole money from their parents’ wallets. His name was Gnarly Jim, if that tells you anything. Someone who looks at anyone under the age of eighteen as if they’re corruptible infants lacking the basic capability of rational decision making, might say that Gnarly Jim ruined my life. I would have to disagree with them though. If Gnarly Jim ruined my life simply because I was legally a child when I became his client, then any other person at my school should have fallen down the same rabbit hole.

They didn’t though. Very few people were quite so impressionable.

It’s a party drug, mephedrone, primarily used to enhance the enjoyment of music, bright lights, human interaction. Party drugs are fine. They give a good kick, a good high.

But I didn’t really find what I was looking for until the first time I tried ketamine.

Ketamine, or Special K as the kids call it, takes your mind, and flips it inside out. It makes you reconsider everything you think you know about the world, presses pause, and forces you to confront it head on. It can be a wonderful refresher, a great way to exit your reality, enter another and regroup. Or it can be hell on your sanity, making you question your own existence to the point of cracking – that’s what they call K-holing.

It was a particularly bad K-hole that finally pushed me over the edge, sent me spiraling straight into rehab.

Meeting Eddie Kaspbrak was like the first time I took ketamine.

* * *

We found Bill in an upstairs bedroom – Ben’s bedroom, seated on the floor, a loose circle of party-goers formed, with him at the head. Bev was there, her head in his lap, his fingers carding through her cherry red strands. Her hair was red anyway, but she’d dyed it, I realized, to something even brighter. Hadn’t noticed that before. Maybe it was new. She looked over, catching sight of me and smiling, warm. A few others were sat in the circle as well, leaning against the sides of the beds, a joint was being passed around.

“Well if it isn’t Richie-fucking-Tozier.” Bill’s face lit up and he gently urged Bev up. She obliged, arms stretching over her head, t-shirt riding up as she did, soft pale skin exposed at the base of her stomach. She caught me looking and winked. I smiled.

Bill’s strong arm came to wrap around my shoulders, and I returned the embrace. “Been a while, Big Bill,” I said, instinctively breathing him in, fingers curling into his shirt.

“You too, Rich. Missed you, man. We all did.” He pulled away, then, giving Stan beside me a friendly pat on the shoulder. I took the opportunity to look around. There were three people seated on the floor other than Bev, who had now sidled up to one of them, pulling the guy’s hands into her own. She was speaking to him in a low voice, and I caught her look back at me, the slight uptick at the corner of her mouth.

The guy whose hands she held, glanced at me after she did, and I noticed his cheeks flush when he saw that I was already staring at him.

“Oh, yeah,” Bill said, moving back over to my side. “So you haven’t met…let’s see, this is Audra,” he said, pointing to another red-haired girl who was leaning up against the side of the bed where he’d been sitting before. She nodded and I returned the acknowledgement, taking note of the joint clasped in her fingers. More people, more faces and names to try and fail to remember. I’d given up with this kind of thing a long time ago. Out of an ingrained politeness, though, I followed along as he moved on then to a guy sitting next to my feet. “This is Oliver. And that’s Eddie.” He pointed last to the guy sitting with Bev. He lifted a hand to me, having to remove it from Bev’s. “Everyone, this is Richie.”

Eddie. _Eddie._ The name rang a bell, and I tried to place it, fixating momentarily. Right. Bev had said something about an Eddie. Presumably this one. Said he was special.

He was a fairly normal looking kid, with a shock of wavy brunette hair, freckles sprinkled across the bridge of his teardrop-shaped nose. His eyes were a standard, boring brown, but as he looked at me, they shifted, the color intangible in depth as something like a smirk contorted his lips. After putting his hand down, he went back to whatever conversation he was having with Bev, his hand easily fitting back into hers. Everyone kind of fit like that with Bev, if she let them. It was a chosen few who could get past Bev’s barriers, and to those she didn’t let in, she could be cold, callous, even aggressive. But once you were there, she was one of the kindest, most open people you knew. And for those people she let in, there was an intimacy that none of us ever talked about, but knew was there.

I guess that the last person Bev let in was Mike, soon after he started to room with Stan. They’d hit it off easily, but that had been a couple years ago now, when we were freshmen. The rest of us had met earlier, gravitating around her, pulled together by her energy, or something like that. It was hard to delineate the way groups form.

Bev was looking at Eddie just like she’d looked at Mike then, just like she had looked at me years and years ago. She brushed a strand of hair out of his eyes and kissed his cheek, as they spoke. His cheeks flushed, but he didn’t seem surprised by it, like she’d done it before. Well, hot damn. Someone else got in.

So that’s what she meant by special.

“Here, come on, guys, sit down, join us,” Bill said, a solid hand landing between my shoulder blades, urging me forward. He took the joint from Audra, bringing it to his own lips before handing it to Stan. Stan wasn’t much of a smoker, but he took it anyway. He might have been stuck up at moments, but ultimately, he could throw himself into a party as much as the next guy. After taking a drag, he looked at me, eyebrow raised, testing.

“I’m good for now,” I told him, before going to the circle, taking an open space on the ground between Eddie and…whatever the other guy’s name was. Owen? Oscar? I watched as Stan took his spot between Bev and Bill. Her hand came over to him naturally, and she removed herself from Eddie to look over at Stan, a breath-taking smile on her lips as she greeted him.

On instinct, I extended a palm to Eddie, looking over at him. “Richie Tozier. Nice to meet you.”

“Kaspbrak. Eddie Kaspbrak.” He took my hand, wiggling his eyebrows, a playful smirk on his lips.

I squeezed gently before letting go. His wrists were covered in armbands, a few rainbow colored, others just colorful string bracelets, faded and worn. “You like a hippie or somethin’?” I gestured to the bracelets as I asked.

His responding laugh was broken, but non-hesitant. “No, I just like them. And I’m gay.”

“Oh.” The sentiment came out harsher than I meant it, and I quickly tried to compensate. “Not, um, not that there’s anything _wrong_ with that, I just—”

“It’s okay,” he said and shrugged, his lips curled up into a confident, reassuring smile. “Most people don’t know how to react. That’s why it’s better to go ahead and say it when I meet people. Otherwise, they find out later, and act like it’s this whole thing that I ‘kept’ it from them.” He rolled his eyes, clearly out of experience. “As if that were _their_ business, you know?” He spoke fast, the words nearly tripping over each other, but they didn’t. His speech was smooth. And I would think it was rehearsed, if his words didn’t sound so genuine. “So yeah, I’ve just…decided to tell people now. No secrets.”

“Alright, that’s…that’s cool,” I said intelligently. I couldn’t stop looking at his eyes, and I thought he might have noticed, but I also just didn’t really care. Way too sober to care. There was just something there, in the depth of them, that begged me to look. Maybe it was the way he stared back, refusing to back off, with an air of experienced determination. There was history there, in the way he looked back, the way he spoke, confident. The voice of someone who’s been burned and refuses to be again. Or maybe it was the gentle, slight upturn of his nose, the curve of his jaw, the way that all of those things, just seemed to fit together on his face, like a pretty puzzle. And maybe I was just going sappy. Maybe sober Richie was just a big fucking dork.

But he _was_ beautiful, I realized. The thought came to me without question, because it wasn’t a thought, or a consideration, it was a fact.

“I’ve heard a lot about you,” he said finally. If I was making him uncomfortable, he didn’t indicate it. “I took your bed last semester.”

“Thanks for keeping it warm for me.”

He just rolled his eyes, those deep brown irises bobbing. “Yeah, well, thanks for kicking me out onto the street.”

“Oh, sorry, I didn’t—”

“Jeez. You’re, like, _way_ too easy to throw off, man. It’s fine. I got another room. Bill was your roommate first. He’s a good one too. Don’t let him get away.”

“The good ones always do, though, right?” I retorted, trying to recapture some of my usual snark. God it was hard though. I was definitely off my game tonight. _Turned inside out._

“They do.” He smirked and looked like he was about to say something else, when Bev turned back to us, leaning against Eddie’s side.

“Isn’t he great, Rich?” she said, clearly already high as a kite. Her fingers came over, curling into the front of Eddie’s t-shirt – a faded print tie-dye, and almost imperceptibly, he leaned into her embrace.

“Pretty cool, Marsh,” I said obligingly, taking a sip from the drink still in my grasp.

“Major cutie.” She smiled, warm and pliant as she kissed his cheek. I realized then, that maybe Bev was on to something. Other than being a fantastic judge of character, always surrounding herself with the best of the best, Bev could generally understand things about people that I couldn’t.

 _If_ I believed in auras, which I don’t, as previously stated, I might say that there was something about the aura of this guy, of one Eddie Kaspbrak, something about him that just drew me in, made me want to talk to him, find out more. I just wanted _more_.

“Knew you two would hit it off,” Bev said then, winking at me, and I knew that she saw me, straight through me, and that was terrifying.


	2. salvation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hell, he didn't really intend on staying sober anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> more TW: relapse, mentions of abuse (not described), brief blood imagery, bullying/hompphobia
> 
> thanks to everyone who read the first chapter <3 sorry this took me a bit to get out. I'm still intending to finish. 
> 
> just so it's clear, though, this is not a one-to-one for Euphoria. I'm kind of going to map some of the characters onto Euphoria's characters, but it's going to be more Loser-club-esque with euphoria atmosphere/vibes/dynamics hopefully :)

_That's me in the corner_   
_That's me in the spotlight_   
_Losing my religion_   
_Trying to keep up with you_   
_And I don't know if I can do it_   
_Oh no, I've said too much_   
_I haven't said enough_

_I thought that I heard you laughing_   
_I thought that I heard you sing_   
_I think I thought I saw you try_

\- 'Losing My Religion,' R.E.M

* * *

The sacred pass-off.

I like to think of it like confession. Just for a different kind of religion.

And in certain ways, a priest is very much like a drug dealer.

Secrets and sins in exchange for a few kind words, some prayers – forgiveness. In fact, if you actually look at the history of Christianity, people have been paying for salvation since the beginning of that whole crock of horseshit started. Just a few bucks in the donation bin, and we can save your soul. Line right up for your opportunity to meet our Lord and Savior for the low price of $17.99. Get it while the gettin’s good, kids.

“It’ll be fifty, Rich. Discounted since you just got back.”

He’s leaning up against the backside of the house. The look in his eyes tells me that he knew we’d end up here, sooner rather than later. Of course, he’s right. I don’t take offense to it. I don’t really know who I was kidding with the whole sobriety thing anyway.

I dig my wallet out of my pocket, lifting the cigarette grasped between my fingers to my lips so that I can sort through the bills. A fifty, the only one, winks at me from the back and I pull it out— _the atonement_. “Better be good, Hockstetter.”

“Have I ever steered you wrong, Tozier?”

“Actually, a few times, yeah. There was that time with the LSD that was definitely laced with something el—”

He cuts me off. Probably good because that’s never a pleasant road to go down. “Well, good luck finding another guy who can get you the good shit.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.” And I wouldn’t. Because Patrick is good. He’s subtle, mostly kind, and fucking reliable.

The baggie he hands me is no bigger than the palm of my hand, half-full of a fine orange-colored powder – _the salvation._

I take it, stuff it into my pocket and give him a short nod.

Wait.

Maybe I should explain how I got here – standing with Patrick Hockstetter, doing exactly what I said I wouldn’t do, just two hours before. It’s currently 1:24 am, according to my phone.

Let’s take a step back.

At approximately 11:30, I met Eddie Kaspbrak – striking brown eyes, pretty freckles. We recall, yes? Well, it wasn’t long after that, sitting in the circle, painstakingly watching as a very thickly rolled joint was passed from grasp to grasp, that Stan called it a night.

“Have to go polish my binoculars,” he said. Or something like that. That might not be verbatim. With a pointed glance at yours truly, he offered to bring me along. Of course, I refused. The night had only just begun. And it was getting under my skin already. I could feel that from the second I walked in the door though.

As often happens with loosely formed groups at parties, the first departure led to a second until the moment was wholly lost. Everyone dispersed, heading to different parts of the house, making rounds – coming back after a break (whether from rehab or Cancun) always entails a certain song and dance. Meaningless conversation about holiday outings, relaxation – _oh it was too short. Always is, isn’t it?_

Bev’s soft fingers wrapped around mind as she pulled me to her side. To keep an eye on me, or simply for the companionship, I wasn’t sure. But I didn’t protest as she pulled me downstairs with her. Momentarily, I tried, futilely, to keep an eye on Eddie, but he disappeared into a crowd as I was tugged down the stairs.

Briefly, I wondered if I’d just imagined him altogether.

When Bev found Ben-- a little before midnight if I’m not mistaken-- sifting through the now fully formed crowd, her face broke into a smile. This was a smile I recognized—a Ben-only kind of a smile. I watched as – like he somehow sensed her presence – he looked over at her and gave her one just as bright. Fuckin’ saps.

All the while, she tugged me into this little third-wheeling situation, and I groaned, shaking free when she wrapped her arms around Ben’s broad shoulders. When she kissed him, I watched, an eyebrow raised at the scene. Not that it was particularly off-brand for Bev, especially when she had a few puffs off the magic dragon, but Ben’s reaction was what gave me pause. His arms wrapped loosely around her waist, pulling her in close.

Now, here, it’s important to point out that Ben has had a crush on Beverly since the sixth grade. Back in those days, Ben was a pudgy, marshmallow of a boy who spent most of his time in the library when he wasn’t playing video games in his parents’ basement. Beverly Marsh, the most gorgeous girl in the sixth grade (and to any of us, the whole goddamn school), was not interested.

Ben wasn’t that kid anymore. He’d grown into his stockiness (quite nicely actually – I’ve made my fair share of catcalls) and the good looks that came with it. Nevertheless, the dork in him, that was harder to shake. I suppose that Bev is a bit of a dork as well, though.

When they finally detached, likely due to the sound of my groan in annoyance, Ben caught my curious gaze. “Oh, hey, Rich.”

“Oh thank god. So I’m not invisible then?” I said in response.

Bev giggled, pulling me over to her, after returning her hand to mine. One hand on mind, the other warmly situated on Ben’s waist. She had us all wrapped around her pretty little fingers. Not that anyone would ever complain.

“Ben and I started dating over the summer,” she informed me.

“And I was starting to think this was just how you greeted people now.”

She shoved at my chest, and huffed out a laugh. “Shut up, asshole.”

Ben examined her face, pulling at her cheeks like he expected them to reveal the secrets of the universe to him. “Are you high?” he asked – I assume because she looked, well, very high.

“Most definitely a lot high, yes,” she told him.

He looked at me then, an eyebrow raised. I lifted my drink. _Cheers – to my worst enemy: Sobriety._ _Live long and prosper. Or not._ “No Devil’s Lettuce for me, Haystack. Don’t worry.”

His responding nod was simultaneously annoying and comforting. It was the look that I didn’t like, the pitying, _god-it-must-be-so-hard-to-be-you_ look. The _watch-yourself_ look. I knew it came from a place of caring, of genuine concern and friendly (almost brotherly) love. And it was a look that I’d grown accustomed to during my time in rehab, except this should have been even less off-putting, because Ben wasn’t being paid to look at me that way.

It still pissed me off.

I sat with them for a while, until 12:47 – I know this because at that point I escaped to the kitchen to refill my drink, and on my way, my phone started to buzz violently in my pocket. The screen read _Margaret,_ and I let out an obnoxiously audible groan. I say obnoxious, not only because I’ve been told that many of my sound effects, commentary, and general musings are obnoxious, but also because the girl next to me gave me a look that clearly said ‘wow, you’re fucking obnoxious.’

It was my mother calling. Of all times and places, she chose here and now. But of course she did. She’s taken it upon herself to make my life a living hell, so why not? Quickly I shoved the phone back into my pocket and continued into the kitchen where Ben’s bright-eyed gangly replacement was then serving up beverages with the widest grin on his face I’d ever seen. Just as I opened my mouth to tell him that I wanted a vodka coke, hold the rocks, my phone started to ring again. I had the sneaking suspicion that it wouldn’t stop until I answered.

The night air was warm as I walked out – lingering summer heat, while also being hauntingly still. A few people milled around in the backyard, drunken giggles floating up into the dark. The light of my phone was blinding as I answered it, walking around to the side of the house for privacy.

“What’s up, mom?”

“Richie,” her voice came through tinny and exhausted sounding, with a hint of relief. She didn’t normally stay up this late. “I tried calling you twice. Why didn’t you pick up?”

“Mom, it’s almost one in the morning. Why are you calling me at all?” I tried my hardest to keep from sounding aggravated, but I _was_ aggravated. So it was made a difficult task.

“I worry, Richie.” The ache in her voice tugged me violently back. Back to the day she’d sat me down, told me that I needed to get help. That she and Dad would get me help. Her voice had sounded similar then. Strained, desperate, sure. But more than anything, it was the hint of hopelessness.

 _You don’t know how hard it is, Richie. As a mother – to find your child, almost…_ My father had placed his hand on her shoulder, strong, firm. They’d sat across from me in our living room: a unified force with one goal in that moment.

My father’s voice had been different, laced with something else – disappointment, lack of understanding. Yin and yang. _We’ve booked a room for you at the Wilson Rehabilitation Center in New Hampshire. We are dropping you off on Monday._

 _School starts on Monday,_ I’d said.My gaze had drifted back to my mother’s shaking form as she broke out yet another sob.

 _We’ve informed the school you won’t be attending this semester._ That had been the end of that. And the beginning of a grueling six-month program of religious insinuations, coping strategies, and mental probing that scarred me for life.

My parents are good people. Don’t get me wrong.

“I’m fine, mom.”

On the other end, I could hear her, ragged breathing filtering in through the speaker. I wished I could be there. I hated that I did this to her, never intended to hurt her.

“How…how are things going?” she asked then, clearly trying to maintain some semblance of normalcy. I appreciated the gesture.

“It’s okay. Classes start soon. I have some work to—”

“Richie, your father and I have been talking.” Oh boy.

“Yeah?”

“We…we want to make sure that things are going well. That you’re doing okay.”

“Sure, yeah. Everything’s fine, Mom.”

“Yes, but…” She paused then, the dead air making my heart race. My fingers itched. “We think it would be best if we come and visit you. Every couple of weeks.”

I stayed silent for a long moment, processing what she’d just said. “What?” I finally managed.

“Your father and I, or at least one of us, are going to come check on you every other weekend. Just to see how you’re doing, maybe buy you a dinner.”

“You mean you’re going to come _watch_ me.”

“We just want to make sure you’re okay—”

“I’m fine, Mom! This is a major invasion of privacy. Don’t you—”

“ _Richard Wentworth Tozier.”_ Her voice was cold and authoritative in a way that I’d only heard a few times in my entire life, and my words quickly died in my throat. “You do not speak to me that way. Now, we will be there this coming weekend. And you will welcome us. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Mom…”

Her voice softened as she said, “Okay, good. We love you Richie. That’s all.”

“I love you too.”

When we hung up, a hollowness seeped into my chest. I was being watched. Not just by my parents, but by everyone. I couldn’t move without someone babying me, someone trying to see if I was ‘okay.’ I’d been forcibly placed on autopilot, letting everyone else take the wheel. All because I’d veered off the road one time.

So I did the one thing that would give me some semblance of control again. I found Patrick.

And so now we’re caught up.

It was just after Patrick placed that little baggie of salvation in my hand that there was a commotion inside. Normally, I couldn’t care less about fights. They were stupid, immature, and typically just an over-the-top expression of masculine aggression. However, in this case, my interest was piqued.

Inside, through the glass back doors, I could see a crowd gathering around the brightly lit kitchen. And through a brief gap between the bodies, I caught sight of a familiar face at the center of the crowd. Stuffing the baggie into my jeans pocket, I rushed inside, pushing through the throngs of people until I had a clear view of Henry Bowers (resident university asshole) pushing none other than Eddie Kaspbrak up against the kitchen counter, a hand on his chest, the other raised in a fist.

“Does anyone know who this faggot is?” Henry snarled, raising his voice. The crowd responded by quietening down in rapt attention and utter fear.

I looked around, but no one seemed prepared or anywhere near willing to respond. My own voice was trapped in my chest. Henry had a bit of a reputation. Though none of it had ever been proven, the rumors held that Bowers had forced a pledge in his own frat to drink a bottle of Jack Daniels until he told him to stop – landing the guy in the ER with severe alcohol poisoning. Not to mention the number of accusations he’d received from previous girlfriends of physical abuse and misconduct. He’d eventually been kicked out of his fraternity, but the school had never taken action. College could be a fucked up place.

“Hey, look, man, I was just minding my own business—” Eddie’s voice, nervous, but sure, cut through, and he lifted a hand, pushing back against Henry’s chest, a simple action, but one that raised a gasp from several people in the audience.

“Just minding your own business?” Henry laughed, and I swear several people took a step backward when his fingers curled roughly into Eddie’s shirt. “We don’t need faggot losers minding their own goddamn business around here.”

“Leave him alone, Henry!” The voice came from my left and I looked to see Bev, her eyes flared up with anger as she stared at the scene, Ben holding her back by her arms.

The distraction was just enough for Eddie to reach off to the side, though, snatching a knife from the block on the counter. He brandished it in the air in front of Henry, who looked back, something akin to fear flashing in his eyes as he stepped away.

“Hey, what the—”

“Back the _fuck_ up, asshole!” Eddie sneered, moving in. The knife glinted in the air, which I noticed had stilled in anticipation. Restless, but no one dared to move. “Don’t fuck with me, okay? Don’t you _dare_ fuck with me.”

I caught the slightest tremble in Eddie’s hand as he held up the knife, his eyes, though, betrayed nothing, if he was in fact afraid. He moved in closer, getting into Henry’s face as he backed him up against the opposite counter. “I’ve chewed bigots like you up for breakfast, asswipe. Don’t you think for a fucking second I won’t do that to you. I’m fucking crazy.” With that he swiped the knife down, slicing into the pale, soft skin of his own forearm without even so much as a flinch.

I’d never seen Henry Bowers cower before that night.

“Alright, alright. Back the fuck up.” Henry’s voice trembled as he managed to get himself out and away from Eddie, toward the crowd which parted for him to exit. The restlessness in the air had shifted to a hushed whispering and I watched as Eddie also pushed his way out, toward the front door of the house.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” I breathed aloud, before pushing out in that same direction.

I caught him by the arm in the front yard, his skin warm against my fingertips, possibly from the adrenaline likely pumping through his veins. His arm was streaked in blood, now covering my own fingers. He stopped, looked back at me.

“What?” Some of the unleashed aggression lingered in his voice, like he had to work himself back down to trusting again. Or maybe he didn’t really trust to begin with.

“I…I just wanted to say that was great. Back there…”

“Yeah, well, someone needs to teach assholes like him a lesson.”

“I would say you did a pretty damn good job.”

He stared at me for a second and I was struck yet again by the depth in his eyes, overcome by a desire to touch the soft edges of his cheeks. He wanted to know if I was for real. I was.

Somehow, he seemed to get that.

“Thanks,” he said, his voice barely audible over the thudding in my own ears. He hesitated. “I’m…I’m going to walk back to my dorm now. I don’t want to be here anymore,” he said then.

“Can I come with you?” I asked without really even thinking about it, the words coming out of their own accord. But when I said them, I realized just how much I wanted that, just how much I wanted to be with him -- this guy I barely knew— at that moment. “I don’t want to be here either.”

“If you want to,” he said, though he was already walking.

I followed him without a second thought, and quickly matched his pace, pulling the momentarily forgotten baggie from my pocket. “You wanna get high?”


	3. pink

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time sped up and slowed down at the same time…until we were left with nothing but a false sense of our world, and only a hyper-realistic sense of each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: implied self-harm, drug use (and description of effects)
> 
> so now I'm hoping to update this about every week! it's a little bit more difficult for me to just crank out like other things I've written. it takes a little bit more thought and such. 
> 
> anyway, I hope you enjoy. <3

One thing I’ve found, in my many years of experience, is that a good trip, like a _really_ good trip, usually has a color. It’s a feeling, a tone that encapsulates the entire experience.

The first time that I took acid was blue-- a shifting, turquoise blue that darkened around the edges. That’s not to say it was sad. It was just _cool,_ calm almost. A feeling of relief had washed over me, cascading over, temporarily alleviating my idiosyncrasies and anxieties.

Typically, it’s only those trips that stick out in my mind. The rest disappear, they blend in with the rest of the mind-numbingly obsolete record of my own sick habits. But those ones, I remember. And it’s those ones, the ones that stand out, that keep you coming back. Forever chasing that feeling, the feeling of the one _fantastic_ experience. But it’s so rare, that you can drive yourself mad looking for it.

Eddie was pink.

Like the soft under belly of a puppy, or the warmth of a late summer sunset. I know it’s cheesy, and that you’re probably wondering if I’ve always been this goddamn soft. The answer is no.

But Eddie was different.

“You want something to drink?”

We’d reached his dorm room, which was half decorated. The left side – clearly where he slept, was neatly organized, a made bed, and a poster of David Bowie in Labyrinth on the wall over his headboard. The desk was laid out precisely. I couldn’t quite tell if he had used it at all yet, or if he was just _that_ organized, because each item seemed specifically placed, with the eye of someone who _really actually_ gave a shit about how it looked. A pen laid perfectly parallel to the edge of the desk, a stack of clean white paper was poised, ready to be used at a moment’s notice.

The right side was empty – bare mattress, desolate desk.

He was standing at a mini-fridge in the corner, staring at me, clearly expecting an answer. “Oh, uh, what do you have?” I stumbled out.

“Some Coke. I don’t really drink that stuff, so feel free. And then water from the tap, I guess? Sorry, I’m not exactly prepared for company.” His cheeks turned a rosy hue in embarrassment.

“If you don’t like Coke, why do you have it?”

“I was feeling rebellious,” he said, and with the comment, his frown turned into a slight, barely there smirk. I liked that cocky little grin a lot, I realized.

“I’ll just take some water.”

He nodded and grabbed a cup, going to the sink in the back corner to fill it up. We settled on the bed, facing each other, legs folded beneath us. I reached into my pocket and pulled out the small baggie that I’d bought from Patrick earlier. The powder was settled at the bottom, a burnt orange, yet florescent color. I thought I remembered what Patrick had called it – ND2A or something like that. It was big in Berlin, he’d said.

Of course, half the time, I thought Patrick probably lied about that kind of thing.

“I’ve never done this,” Eddie said, his voice quiet and unsure as he eyed the baggie clasped between my fingers.

“It’s easy,” I said, pulling out my phone and dumping about half the contents onto the black screen. My wallet was a bit harder to fish out, but I finally got my fingers around it in my back pocket. Inside, nestled in the folds, was a small metal straw, no longer than my pinky finger. I grabbed a credit card, an old one that didn’t work anymore and methodically broke the orange pile up into several short lines. “Just hold this up, like so,” I told him, holding the metal straw to my nostril. I remembered the first time I’d done this, the way that the girl showing me had acted. Pretentious and stuck up. I didn’t want to be that way. “Close your other nostril, and breathe in.” I leaned over the phone in my other palm and snorted one of the lines, hissing from the burn in my nose. “Fuck.”

When I looked back up, for a moment, I couldn’t read his expression, and a million awful thoughts rushed through my mind: _What if he thinks I’m just a loser junkie? What if this is too much for him? I should have started with something simple. What if he’s disgusted by me?_

All of those thoughts dissolved away though, when Eddie took the phone from my hand, and the metal straw in his other. He snorted a line quickly and without hesitation, and I couldn’t help the half-smile that formed on my lips.

“Damn, you’re a champ, Kaspbrak,” I said, chuckling. The head rush was almost immediate, making my limbs feel lighter and the room seem to brighten around us. I got up and flipped the lights off, before returning to my place, closer to Eddie now, so that our kneecaps touched.

The smile he gave me was warm and soft, arching his cheeks perfectly. When my hand reached out to touch that sprinkle of freckles on the bridge of his nose, I quickly redirected, grabbing the phone instead and doing the third line. One remained. I handed it to him.

And…slowly, I sunk.

I always fought it at first. It took a moment to give myself over. But…once I did, the feeling of that release was truly something wonderful…

Time sped up and slowed down

at

the same time

…

until we were left with nothing but a false sense of our world, and only a hyper-realistic sense of each other.

i knew eddie was beautiful. but now…

in the off-kilter light of our trip (and i say _our_ because it was a shared experience i know that much)

he became absolutely radiant, bathed in a glowing pink light, i could no longer keep myself from reaching out, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath my fingertips

soaking him in

until we were one and the same

jekyll and hyde

miley and hannah

beavis and butthead

okay, now i’m just losing my train of thought

anyway

at some point, he took my glasses, placing them on his own face. he giggled, and i giggled, the sounds reverberated around the room, and i wasn’t even entirely sure the exchange wasn’t just in our own heads

“what’s happening?” i heard him speak, but that might have been an hour ago.

i pulled him down onto the mattress with me, took his arm. we laid, facing each other in the dim light that came through the window, street lamps from outside that painted pink arcs of pale light across the gentle curve of his features – the tip of his nose and the arch of his eyebrows

i mapped the lines with my fingers

the jagged cut where he’d sliced his own arm was tender, but it had stopped bleeding. i brought his arm up, examining, and his skin erupted in goose bumps against my lips

“you’re beautiful,” i heard myself say, the words lost in the echo

but he heard – i know because his gaze softened and soon enough he was lying right up next to me, his chest pressed to mine. my eyes closed as my fingers wormed under his t-shirt, pressing warm against his skin

i let myself disappear into the pink

* * *

I woke up with the warmth of him pressed against my chest, arms looped around his waist, and our legs tangled together, beneath the dark gray comforter of his bed. I breathed him in, the scent of his shampoo – maybe lavender or something floral – filling my nostrils, washing over me.

He fidgeted in his sleep, and I pulled him closer. It was intoxicating – the _all_ of him, and I thought, somewhere in the depths of my sleep-drenched mind, that maybe I could absorb it, maybe if I focused, I could suck him up, curl him into a ball. I could _learn_ him, who he was, what he was like, _really, truly,_ not just the image that he put on, the cocky grins and the little performance.

His stirring became more pronounced when my arms tightened around him, and I reluctantly let go, allowing him to turn around, looking at me, with those wide, brown eyes.

“’Morning,” he said, once again with that patented cocky grin.

His brunette curls matted against his forehead, some sticking up at odd angles, creating a funny kind of crown at the top of his head.

“’Morning,” I responded in turn, one arm still draped around his torso. 

He flushed then, looking down at our situation, me wrapped around him. I wanted to tell him not to – that it was okay. That this was supposed to happen. I could _feel_ it. I didn’t though. Instead, I removed my arm, my motions careful as I sat up in his twin XL bed, pressing my back against the headboard. He did the same, and we sat there, in silence for a few moments. It was nice. It was comfortable. Normally, at least in my experience, it takes years to get to a point of comfortable silence with someone. Especially since I’ve always had a habit of filling silence with stupidity and quips. I’ve never been particularly great at holding my tongue. 

“You called me beautiful.” His voice was soft, almost inaudible, like he wasn’t totally sure if it had happened.

“Yeah, I –” I cut myself off, looked down at my hands. The feeling of comfort seeped out of me, leaving me feeling empty. I despised my mood swings. Made me want to reach for something. Anything to just level me out. “Sorry if that was weird. It’s the drugs, you know? Makes you say funny shit.”

“No it…it wasn’t weird. It was nice. You don’t seem like the kind of guy who calls people beautiful very often.”

“What? Don’t be ridiculous. I’m the king of compliments. You’re not special Kaspbrak. Yesterday I told a dog on the street I loved him, so—”

He rolled his eyes, shoving my shoulder. I felt light at the contact. “Everyone tells dogs on the street they love them. Strangers’ dogs are the best.”

“Touché.” I chuckled, meeting his gaze. “I mean, his name was Mr. Cuddles and he was about fifteen years old. It was love at first sight.”

“Obviously.” He grinned, and let the silence settle again, a few long moments passing. “So why are you here anyway?” he asked. I wondered if _he_ found our silences awkward. I hoped not. I didn’t want to make him uncomfortable.

“I don’t know,” I responded, speaking the truth I didn’t even realize. That was one of the anomalies of having absolutely no filter between my brain and my mouth – sometimes the words I said came out more honest than even my thoughts were capable of being. “Do you want me to leave?”

“No.” He was looking straight ahead, at the wall by the door. I wanted to trace his profile, draw it -- _again_. His hands twitched in his lap, catching my eye. He still wore his arm bands, loosely spread over his forearms, but some were displaced in his sleep, exposing the pale skin beneath. He wasn’t as pale as me but his skin looked like it begged to be in the sun. Unlike my underlying pastiness that said “put me in the sun and I’ll roast like a goddamn pig.” But there, where his skin was exposed, I caught a glimpse of a jagged, pale pink scar along his forearm. His arm turned over too quickly for me to get a good look, but when I moved my eyes back up, his cheeks were that rosy color again.

“Did something happen?” I asked. _Are you broken like me?_

“It was a long time ago,” he said. This wasn’t something he talked about often, if at all. I could hear that in the uptick of his voice, the way the words sounded foreign to him. He rolled his eyes though, trying to push it off, trying to avert my attention. Wasn’t happening, buddy. “It’s not…like a thing, you know? Just some stupid shit. Not worth talking about.”

“Sounds like something that’s probably _very_ worth talking about.” It was a mistake. I knew that. I hardly knew this guy. He didn’t have any reason to trust me.

“Alright, well do you want to talk about your bullshit? Because I’m all ears. I hear it’s quite the back story.” His voice took on an edge – defensive. It had the desired effect. My heart started to beat faster in my chest, my palms moistening. “Bill told me plenty already, but if you want to elaborate, I know that your story would probably be much more interesting than mine.”

The anxiety rose up in my throat, suffocating. “Yeah. Okay. I get it. You don’t have to talk about it.” I made to get up, suddenly exhausted. “I’m gonna go.”

He watched me, and for some reason I wanted him to tell me not to. I wanted him to reach out, grab my arm, pull me back. But, this wasn’t some fairytale, and he stayed seated, arms folded against his chest and a frown sketched into his features. He didn’t even watch me as I walked to the door, grabbing my jacket from the floor and sliding it on.

“I’ll see you around, I guess,” I said, glancing back. He gave me a curt nod, not meeting my eyes.

In the hall, I pulled out my cellphone, brushing some of the remnants of the previous night’s adventures off the screen, little flecks of orange. I had a missed call from Bev, several text messages from my mom.

 **Mom (1:07)** : Richie, we’re just looking out for you sweetie.

 **(1:09):** Be safe.

 **(1:10):** We’ll see you on Saturday.

I groaned and flipped to Bev’s missed call, hitting _call back_ as I walked toward the door, trying to ignore the grinding in my jaw – a typical side effect that had always been particularly bad for me. I reached into my wallet where I stored a couple of hard candy chews for just this situation. Bev picked up on the third ring.

“Hey, Loser,” she said. “Where’d you get off to last night?”

The morning air was dewy as I walked out. It was early. Much earlier than I ever got up willingly. The street lamps were still on, casting yellow circles of light across the sidewalk as I struggled to remember which direction my dorm was in. “Didn’t feel like being there anymore,” I said into the cell phone, pressed between my ear and my shoulder.

“Wanna meet for breakfast? I need to talk to you about something.” She sounded rushed, vaguely frantic. It was hard to work Bev up.

“Sure.”

“Alright, meet me at IHOP in thirty.”

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading, comments and kudos are love <3


End file.
